Love, Actually
by ninamonkey
Summary: AU love/hate letter.


_Love, Actually_

_Dearest E:_

Awareness is not something I contemplate; it is something I _do_, something I _am_. Beyond the mutancy, beyond ability, I am _aware_. I manipulate molecules of air. I taste movement. I detect the vibrations of hummingbirds. There are no true words for my awareness – no words in dictionaries, no etymologies. But I enjoy who I am, and every day I try to push to become more of who I am, and I'm glad to do so. But this, I believe (unlike you) is humanity's true problem…_awareness_. Most people are not aware of who they are, nor are they aware of what they can do. They don't know what they are capable of doing. I do, however. Oh, _yes_, I know. Sometimes I can even surprise myself.

No, I hadn't expected to care. Caring gets one killed for the most part, or gets one caught, and getting caught is not an option. Isn't that what you've always said, that being caught isn't a justifiable gambit? Perhaps what we have isn't any sort of a connection at all. Perhaps we're just two grandmasters at stalemate.

I suppose I am a little drunk. It's not on purpose. You know the littlest bit can affect me a great deal. The littlest bit…

You remember. I know you remember, but you choose to either forget the past, or rewrite it. We weren't a triangle, or a quadrangle, or whatever you want to call it. He was a boy, our first – and you, I think, were hoping he would be our only. Though you treasure the defiance of youth, you don't have time to nurture the passion, which makes you a lousy teacher.

Honing them was _my_ job.

And I could smell him before I saw him. I was acutely aware: A sixteen-year-old, sullen street child with the stink of sex - some warranted, some unwarranted. I didn't need any special mutant abilities to smell him because the truth was chiseled in the angry, bitter set of his jaw. Charles saw potential, as did you.

I saw a mirror.

And that mirror was written in the set of my jaw, and the angry looks I shot you and Charles. I still hate that small smirk of satisfaction, marching across your face, when you saw my weaknesses displayed as a mural in Charles' mind. I'm fairly sure it was one of Charles' little tests in the beginning. It was more than the boy; it was the whole damned "dream" of peace and communion. You and I both know that the problem with Charles is not his idealism, but his fucking scientist's _brain_. We're all experiments to him, all playthings. He forces us to confront the deepest parts of ourselves whether we want to or not, and it frightens us – whether we visibly show fear, or not.

God, I hate him. I hate everything he touches. Truthfully, I think you and I hate him for he same reason, but I wouldn't dare tell you that to your face.

But the boy…

Charles knew that of the three of us, I alone would have the ability to bring out the worst in him, as well as the best. Charles knew I would be drawn to him. You were too busy, and Charles – ever the pragmatist – felt himself too soft. The boy wanted to fight, so I let him fight. I let him scream, cry, and rail at the world. _I took it, Erik._ Are you listening? I was his only outlet, not you. Not Charles. I was his teacher, his trainer, his only friend…I was his fucking _mother_. But I broke him like a dutiful lieutenant. I broke him hard, I broke him fast and I did exactly what you and Charles wanted. You both got what you wanted – from him, and from me. The mirror shattered in both our lives.

And you with your smug smirk, observing us with all your rational calm, as if enjoying a perfectly conducted sonata…

Fuck you, Erik.

Damn you _both_ to hell for making me leave before the job was complete.

I left because my emotions were too close to the surface, and I needed an outlet. You both pushed me and yes, I was the one who blinked first. But I didn't see it as weakness then, and I sure as hell don't see it as weakness now. It was simply necessary.

But the boy caught me as I was leaving, and so it shattered me. You knew I cared, but you never realized how much until that moment, but it was a matter of self-preservation for me. He screamed at me, hurled every bit of nonsense from a 17-year-old's perspective, and I froze him out, hardened my heart. Do you care that I did? No, I suppose you don't. Sometimes you're worse than Charles, you know, and sometimes you don't even see it because it's all for the "greater good," whatever the hell that means.

I left him shattered, and in broken shards…and Charles rebuilt him, because you left soon after that. Why did you leave, I wonder? I never really understood why. Out of some kind of loyalty to me? Or something more? Still…my brokenness became the boy's strength, and his brokenness mine. It would have become uncomfortably unnatural, had I stayed. I was not Mrs. Robinson, and he wasn't a typical lovestruck teen. So he chose a girl closer in age (rather, near enough that it did not matter) and I chose you. And as much as you may think it was the other way around, I alone made the choice. Not you.

And these many years later, through all of the encounters and fights, the private and the public…through all of this, the boy and I did not speak nor acknowledge the damage done to the other. I did not mind hardening myself to it – it's what I do best, after all. I change to suit the new circumstances, and I become what I am not. I adapt. So you and I became lovers in lieu of other things, and I think it suited your purposes, as it suited mine. I might have forgotten the rest, had it not been for John.

John was the last straw, you see. You sought to re-open old wounds, perhaps to prove that you still had the ability to manipulate my emotions to suit your purposes. But you hadn't realized that I'd grown far beyond you. I had my own plans and my own agendas, and I was quite good at them. I am no longer your lapdog, you see, and I am quite capable of finishing what I started.

By the way, please don't kill John. He's what _you_ need, now.

But this is where it ends. Scott had no one, because he was still damaged, inside. Charles did not harden him, and I left before I could heal the damage. He transferred his love to Jean, but he never dealt with _me_. I saw that when, two months later, he was still grieving. You didn't know I went to find him, did you? I suspect Charles didn't know, either. He was by himself, reverted to the same sullen street brat, yet with the stink of whiskey over the stink of sex.

I knew what I had to do.

Did I surprise you? I hope to hell I did. I hope too, in the process, that I tore Charles' precious heart clean from his chest. I took him from both of you. He lies in my bed, now, quiet and content. I've taken care of him and repaired the damage that neither one of you thought to fix, long ago. I alone will make him whole. I will tell him the truth, when he is ready. And when I am done, I will unleash him upon you both.

Revenge is sweet, my dear Erik.

I wonder what he will be, under _my_ care?

Until we meet again,

_--R._


End file.
